CHAPTER IX.

FIGHTING AGAINST FEARFUL ODDS--DEATH OF MOORE--THE EMBARKATION--A WIFE AND A NEW SET OF BAGPIPES.

At Corunna Sir John Moore quickly established his troops. He found plenty of ammunition here that the careless, stupid Spanish authorities had not troubled themselves to send on.

At Corunna he determined to defend himself till the transports came up; they really had been detained at Vigo by stress of weather.

However, on the very next day after their arrival, the ships did arrive, and no time was lost in getting the wounded, the sick, the women and children, and even the horses, on board, for Sir John was a humane man.

But already Soult was close to the town, and skirmishing had commenced.

Sir John had blown up a magazine only the day before, that was built on a hill overlooking the town. It is said that in this magazine were about 4000 barrels of gunpowder that had been sent from England. In this very spot Soult had some of his guns planted, and, in seizing these, brave Colonel McKenzie and many of his men were killed by the French.

Our troops occupied the village of Elima, and to command this Soult had erected a formidable battery. Opposite this battery, and not far off, were Sir David Baird and his men.

About twelve o'clock on the 15th of January, the terrible but glorious battle began in earnest.

I am not going to describe it in detail. It was a fight that every British schoolboy should know as much about as any novelist can tell him.

We fought a desperate battle, though not a despairing one.

Defeat would have meant for us utter annihilation. Yet we fought against fearful odds.

I--a Scot--would naturally like to claim the greatest honours for my own countrymen, notably the gallant Forty-twa, and my grand-dad's regiment. O, it is only natural. But, my brave English lads and lasses who do me the honour of reading my books, I am going to do nothing of the sort. Let us say honours were divided 'twixt Scotch, English, and Irish.

Just a word about the numerical strength of the opposing hosts.

Soult, then, had fully twenty thousand men, and Sir John but little over fourteen thousand. Moreover, our general had shipped all his artillery with the exception of a few small cannons.

Many a gallant charge was made that day, and again and again was the village taken and lost. Many a brave man and officer fell too. But we were not to be denied, not to be beaten.

Poor Sir John Moore! his last heroic words, his last wild shout, were addressed to the 42nd.

This was a critical time, for Sir David Baird's arm was broken by a cannon-ball. Major Stanhope was killed, and the well-known Sir Charles Napier, at this time a major, was wounded, and Paget was borne back on the right wing.

It was then that, seeing the critical state of affairs, Sir John Moore, who, you will remember, led the Highlanders at Alexandria, galloped up to the 42nd.

"Hurrah! my lads," he shouted; "remember Egypt! Down with the foe!"

Surely a wilder slogan had never been heard before in any battle-field than that which answered Sir John.

"That we will!" roared Tom Grahame. "Forward!"

Then the cheer and the slogan, and those sturdy mountaineers seemed to carry everything before them. The Highlanders were bravely supported by men brought up by Hardinge.

But, alas! it was then that, while waiting for this officer, brave Sir John Moore was struck. He fell from his horse.

But, with his terrible wound bleeding, he sat up once more and gazed after the 42nd, who were driving the enemy before them.

Of two things the hero now felt certain. First, that the victory was ours, and secondly, that he himself had received his death-wound.

Like the immortal Nelson--

"In honour's cause his life had passed, In honour's cause he fell at last For England, Home, and Beauty."

Sergeant Tom Grahame, with two other soldiers, making a hammock of a Highland plaid, carried the poor bleeding general to the rear, though more than once, so great was his anxiety to see how things were going on, he caused them to halt, that he might catch one more glimpse of the battle-field.

Sir John Moore's wounds were mortal, and by sunset he was dead.

But our troops were victorious all along the line and in every line.

There was no coffin to lay the remains of the hero in. He was just buried at midnight, in the uniform he had worn when shot down, wrapped in martial cloak, as Wolfe in his poem describes it, and without either pomp or ceremony. He had endeared himself, however, to his soldiery, and had it been daylight, many a tear might have been seen glistening in the eyes of the rough and weather-beaten soldiers, who placed him in his narrow bed.

"Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried

"We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

"No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

"Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

"We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

"Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

"But half our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

"Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- But we left him alone with his glory."

It was not without danger and difficulty, to say nothing of accident, that the troops were finally embarked.

General Soult may have imagined we were going to keep the lines we had so gallantly won, and remain for a time at Corunna. When, therefore, he found next morning that these were deserted, and our ships making off to sea, he caused great guns to be dragged to the tops of the hills, and endeavoured to sink the vessels.

Three or four of these got on shore, but although they had to be abandoned, those on hoard were saved by the boats; and so ended this ill-fated expedition.

* * * * *

Once fairly at sea, there was time for our brave fellows to think and talk of all the fearful sufferings they had come through. Not that these were quite all over yet. The transports were but small, and were painfully over-crowded.

Moreover, in the hurry of embarkation, women got separated from their children, and knew not whether they were dead or alive. Nor could wives tell the fate of their husbands.

Many mourned as dead those they joyfully met again on shore, and, alas! not a few felt certain their husbands were safe on board some other transport, though they were lying stark and stiff on the battle-field where they had so gallantly fought and fallen.

Neither O'Reilly nor Drake, though bravely indeed had they led their men on, had received a scratch, nor had my grandfather. These two officers, however, were on board another ship; while once again, as fate would have it, Tom Grahame, Tonal, and my grand-dad found themselves together--thanks to careful nursing, for the Spanish girl had embarked with the others, bringing Tom's baby, as little Annie was called, along with her. The child had taken a very great fancy for the burly sergeant, and screamed with delight when she saw him again.

"What are you going to do with her, Tom?" asked my grand-dad again.

"Well, Preen Mhor," was the reply, "I haven't just made up my mind yet. If I can get a furlough, I'll just take her home to my mother on the braes. If not, she must follow a soldier's fortunes."

"Well, Tom, you have a great big heart of your own, to be sure. But as for Tonal, it is very evident what he means to do."

"To be sure, to be sure, Tonal has a soft heart of his own, and now that he has lost his bagpipes, nothing but a wife can take their place."

"A good exchange, Tom; and when he comes to have a few bairns, faix! he won't miss the pipes."

Tom laughed.

But it turned out much as was predicted. Tonal did get married. At Dover, I believe, the happy event took place. And Tonal was doubly delighted, because on that same day the officers and non-commissioned officers presented the honest fellow with a splendid stand of bagpipes, brent new from Inverness.

No wonder Tonal was happy. Many a man gets a wife, but probably not one in ten thousand gets a wife and a stand of bagpipes both in the same day. That was where the laugh came in.